Lonely Girls
by Taltos
Summary: A four-part series of one-shots, each one about a different girl and her poor heart; it turns out Zi is a smaller world than any of them could have imagined... VF, RM.
1. Fiona

**Lonely Girls**

_Revised 2.28.04. Why? Cause it's a snow day, bay-bee... _

_Anyways. This is sort of a strange idea...so, not your average romances. This fan fiction will consist of four chapters, each of them self-contained one-shots. They are all sort of tied together, so I'm lumping them into the same story. Which means, _**HEY, GUESS WHAT? YOU CAN SKIP THIS CHAPTER.**

_All the quotes are from the same song–_Lonely Girl, _by Pink._

_WARNING: I think the only totally canon pairing in here is the first, Van/Fiona. How clichéd. But it's because I don't write alternate Van and Fiona relationships well, so here ya go. This is an odd VF relationship, anyway. It's all cool and psycho. Oh, and I don't own Zoids._

**-**

**One: Taking over my Head**

_I can remember the very first time I cried  
__How I wiped my eyes and buried the pain inside  
__All of my memories, good and bad that's past  
__Didn't__ even take the time to realize..._

_-_

The ink pen scratched hoarsely at the paper, its trail of ink shining wetly in the fluorescent lighting. Arc, loop, line, cross. Fi-oh-na. Her blonde hair dangerously close to the fresh ink, Fiona examined her signature. Despite its brevity, it looked like a child's scrawl. She added an experimental underline, narrowing her sunset eyes. With a sigh, she crossed the whole thing out.

The paper was covered in random scribbles, all of which were crossed out several times. Tossing the pen onto the table, Fiona eyed the pile of untouched paperwork that was supposed to be done an hour or so ago. The main office of Dragon Head Base was strangely empty, and silence hung heavily within the concrete walls. With a sigh, Fiona darted her glance around and finally made up her mind. Without a second thought, she slipped out the door.

The infamous red dust that covered Red River Valley sparkled in the early afternoon sunlight. The muted chatter of desert insects echoed up from the river gorge, and all but drowned out the sound of the river itself. Waves of heat rose waveringly from the horizon, and the few scraggly trees clinging to the lip of the gorge danced in their wake.

Fiona lowered herself to sit on the edge of the observation tower, leaning her gloved forearms against the railing. The warmth of the metal, coupled with the rising temperature of the afternoon, sapped her strength. Her eyelids drifted lower and lower, until she was viewing the world through crimson slits.

Directly below her was one of those impossibly alive trees, its weak branches trembling under the weight of three large birds. They were jet black...not ravens. Crows, maybe, waiting for some garbage to be thrown out for them. Under her gaze, one of them turned its beady eyes to consider her. It seemed almost...inquisitive.

_Do you remember?_ It was a hoarse, rattling whisper, not unlike the scratchy sound of an ink pen on paper.

She tilted her head. _Remember what?_

_Do you?_ The crow stared unblinkingly back at her.

Fiona thought for a moment, and then slowly shook her head. _No._

_How sad. _The crow hunched its shoulders and took off in a flurry of beating wings and flying dead leaves. _How very sad._ Its fellows followed, the _whup-whup_ of their glossy wings fading into the insects' drone.

Fiona watched them go, and then turned her gaze back down to the tree they'd just left. The limb that had so bravely wielded the crows' fat bodies waved for a moment, then with a sharp crack, broke. The claw-like tips of the branch disappeared soundlessly into the gorge.

Fiona stared after it for a few minutes, studying the jagged edge of the severed branch, and took in how the tree stood unflinchingly at the edge of its doom. Because, certainly, that was its fate: to break into rough pieces and fall into the river...until only the dead roots remained, a ghost of its presence.

_Remember what?_Life, maybe. Death, maybe. She, of course, remembered death all too well, having stared the Deathsaurer in its monstrous face more than once. She was a member of a dead race. By all rights, she _should_ be dead.

Fiona's eyes followed the path of the river, snaking across the wasteland until it faded into the cerulean sky. There were no distracting clouds to mar the blue deep, and her eyes danced across the expanse, finally meeting the sun.

Resting her cheek on her arm, she gazed steadily at the blazing orb, afterimages swirling in her vision. They took strange shapes, some of reaching hands _(What do they want from me?)_, some of feminine silhouettes _(Mother? Is that...you?)_, but most disturbing was when they didn't take any sort of shape at all, just seething black masses that threatened to swallow her whole.

Her breath came faster, unable to tear her gaze from the pulsing power that reached for her, closer, closer, always threatening to take her hand and lead her away form the warm sunlight forever. Black tendrils snatched at her fingers, intertwining themselves and racing up her wrist, her arm. And the rasping whisper came again.

_How sad,_ It said. _You don't remember._

_Yes, yes, I do. I promise. _Her voice came slowly, as though she had to struggle to pull them manually from her throat.

_Are you sure? _The voice sounded doubtful.

_Yes. I will never forget again._ After a few seconds, the wisps of black ceased their pull. With a soft sigh, the ringlets of night released her wrist, then her fingers, one by one. Finally, they retreated back to their own pitch-black mass, and, with a discordant bell-call, winked out. The sunlight blazed through again, hot and comforting.

"Fiona?"

The girl dragged her eyelids shut, her eyes themselves feeling dry and blinded. She took a slow breath, suddenly aware of how sweat had beaded uncomfortably between her neck and shoulder, her cheek and arm. Warm hands pulled at her upper arms, and she shivered. They were so warm.

"Fiona? Are you okay?"

She slowly raised her head from her arm, squinting painfully. The metal rail left patterned, rusty imprints in her hands, and the sky had become tinged with crimson and orange. Turning, she could make out the blurry shape of Thomas, who was staring at her, worried.

She cleared her dry throat, and managed to smile weakly. "Sorry, I guess I fell asleep." Her eyes teared up, her pupils dilating in the sudden shadows, and she blinked hard, wiping her hand across them impatiently.

"With your eyes open?" He sounded doubtful, and a little scared. "You, um...looked like you were staring at the sun."

Fiona gave a non-committal shrug, still holding her glove to her eyes. Finally, she experimentally pulled it away, and was happy to notice that she could see. Technicolor afterimages no longer taunted her with their blinding intensity. Everything still seemed a little blurry, but they sharpened as soon as she thought about it.

Balancing a smile on her lips, she turned to reassure Thomas...and lost it. Her eyes widened, her lips parting. Her sunburned cheeks paled to white and her stomach lurched sickeningly. She turned her gaze to look away from him, her hand instinctively reaching for the railing as a reassurance of reality.

"F-Fiona? Are you sure you're okay?"

Real tears came to her eyes this time, and she shook her head. Her teeth chattering, she pulled her knees into her chest, burying her head in them. "I don't want it," she whispered. "Take it away. I don't want to remember anymore." She felt a touch of fingers on her arm, and shrieked, "Don't _touch_ me!" Sobbing, she rocked back and forth, trying her very hardest to draw far enough into herself that she could disappear.

The roaring in her ears was so loud that she didn't hear Thomas stammer something about getting help, or his retreating footsteps. She whispered fiercely to herself, trying to block it all out of her mind. "I don't want to remember, why can't I just _forget?_ Just take it away, take it away, get it _out of my head!_" Her scream faded into the nothingness of the wasteland.

-

It was nightfall when Van came, slipping quietly in her door. Fiona sat in her bed, huddled in a miserable little ball, her face buried in her comforter and her bangs cascading over her knees. She felt the bed give a little under his weight, but didn't move.

"Fiona?"

She didn't answer.

"_Fiona._ Look at me."

She shook her head violently.

"Why not?" He sounded more puzzled than hurt.

"Because." Her whisper was almost inaudible, muffled by both her blanket and her knees, and she drew her arms around her legs tighter. "Because I _don't want to see it._" Her knuckles turned white from the pressure of clenching her hands.

"See what? Fiona, you have to look at me."

It sounded like he'd been talking with Thomas, the first to see her after her encounter with the dark. He'd evidently heard how she refused to look at anyone. How she was reduced to a pile of shuddering nerves if she did. Steadfastedly, she shook her head again and clasped her hands tighter.

"Fi-_ona_." He sounded exasperated, and a little of the hurt was showing through.

"No." She shook her head again for emphasis. "Not _you._"

"_What?_"

"I don't want to see it happen to you." Her shoulders shuddered a little, and she felt hot tears escape her eyes, soaking into the comforter. "Not to you."

"O-okay." He shifted his weight, moving up to sit beside her. He slid his hand across her trembling shoulders, hesitantly at first, but then with a little bit more confidence after she didn't scream at him in the way that had really scared Thomas.

Fiona leaned into the reassuring contact, her grip on her hands loosening somewhat. She took a trembling breath, letting the tears come more freely. Finally, they stopped, and she relaxed. Everything...was going to be okay.

Suddenly, a hand snaked under her chin and lifted her face. Fiona gasped a struggled a little, but she was no match for Van's grip. Finally, she just squeezed her eyes shut tightly, tears starting to stream down her cheeks again. "Van, please..."

"Fiona, come on. You have to let us help you–"

"N-no one can help me." She hiccupped with new tears, and clenched her jaw.

"–But _first,_ you have to look at me." He sounded resolute, and content to stay that way all night, if he had to. Fiona didn't move, just shook with silent tears, and finally he sighed. "Fiona, just trust me. It's _okay._"

She bit her lip, and finally, finally, with agonizing slowness, cracked one eye. And blinked. And started to cry again. "Oh, Van." She leaned forward, reaching up her shaky, cold hands to touch his face, make sure he was real.

Van smiled, his dark eyes softening. "See? I told you it would be okay."

Fiona didn't answer, too preoccupied with running her hands over his cheeks, his forehead, his lips. Nothing was wrong with him. At all. She fell into his arms, sobbing again...but this time, with some sort of relief. She could feel his heartbeat against her ear, and that made her cry even harder. Van rubbed her stroked her hair reassuringly, waiting a few minutes before saying a thing.

Finally, when she had calmed down, he said, "Fiona...what didn't you want to see?"

She pulled away, looking both fearful and serious. After a silent moment, she stammered, "I-I...I can see death." She swallowed hard, trying her best to block the memory of Thomas, his throat a gaping, tattered maw, and the wash of dark blood down his front. And worse, the way he was so very alive, asking if she was okay.

Van frowned. "What do you mean? Death? Whose death?"

Fiona nodded. "I-I can s-see how people will die. I-It's supposed to make m-me remember."

"Remember?"

_How sad._

She nodded.

_You don't remember._

Van gave her an odd look. "What are you supposed to remember?"

"I-I think...that you...are human." She went on slowly, trying to get it right. "And that...I'm _not_. I think. I-I don't know. Of...of your mortality, maybe." She shrugged helplessly, feeling hysterical laughter bubbling up in her throat.

_I will never forget again._

Van nodded thoughtfully. Maybe he was just humoring her, making her think that he believed what she was saying. Not that she'd blame him if he was. After a short quiet, he glanced at her again. "And me? What do you see when you look at me?"

Fiona gazed at him for a moment, then said dreamily, "I don't know. I don't see anything. Other than you."

A smile tugged at his lips. "Good. I'm glad. But right now," he checked his watch, "it's a little late. You should go to sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow, I promise. It isn't supposed to be as hot." He patted her folded hands and stood to go.

Fiona sighed and slid her legs under her comforter, feeling much better. Van slipped back out the door just as she lowered herself to her pillows. As he shut the door behind him, the dim light from the hallway briefly illuminated the almost invisible trail of ghost-blood he had left behind from a gunshot wound in his back.

She did not sleep that night.

-

_I'm__ staring at the cracks in the wall  
__'Cause I'm waiting for it all to come to an end  
__Still I'll curl up right under the bed  
__'Cause it's taking over my head  
__All over again..._

_-_

_Good god.__ I am a horrible person._

_I mean, -ahem- that was #1 in the Lonely Girls series, Taking over my Head. Yes, it is over. #2 will be entirely unrelated. _

_I am strangely comfortable with Fiona being totally off her rocker. I dunno why. It's fun, I s'pose. And she has the background for it, come on. No, this doesn't really have a plot. All of these are sort of my idle scribblings. I'm just letting the ideas come to me, instead of desperately scrambling for them. Soo...don't mind me. My creativity demons are playing around._

_Review and lemme know whatcha think, please._


	2. Maria

**Lonely Girls**

_Aaaaand nine months later, she's BACK! I fervently apologize, everyone–I had no idea that this thing would take so long to get through. And remember, this thing is not supposed to continue chapter one. Zey ah separate, so don't expect this to continue the adventures of 'I see dead people' Fiona._

_A note on pairings: Yes, this is where the really crack-head pairings start. But! I am of the opinion that there is nothing wrong with said crack-head pairings–as long as they are feasibly well-written. See, that's the challenge of being a fan fic author: making things feasible and believable hell, that's ANY author. And, when you get right down to it, Michiru Ueyama does not give a rat's ass about who we lowly few think should be with whom. So, with that said..._

-

**Two: Feel the Pain**

_Do you even know who you are?  
I guess I'm trying to find  
A part of a dream of a superstar  
I want to be a star  
Is that good to you, or is it bad?  
I can't tell anymore  
Do you even know what you have?_

-

All Elemian desert flowers were rare, but strangely, those that grew on oases were the rarest of them all. Housewives tended small gardens, painstakingly nourishing each and every precious plant; as a result, they never had many. The duties of the house always required more attention than flowers, after all...and the desert flowers died, more often than not.

And yet, Maria had managed to put together a good-sized bundle of them, carefully chosen and sacrificed from her small garden. Tied together with a shred of ribbon, the bright blossoms sat at the foot of Daniel Flyheight's grave, as if they had grown there.

Maria sighed softly as her roughened fingertips brushed across the gravestone. A soft breeze wafting through her dark hair, she sat down heavily and leaned her back against the stone. The quiet oasis village of the Wind Colony met her eyes, and the towering dunes of the Elemia desert beyond.

"Oh, Dad." She toyed with the thick rope of her braid, threading her fingers through the tight knots. The calluses from long hours at her loom caught on the soft locks. "It's been...three months, since Van last called." Her fingers moved to the grass, tearing the thin blades into tiny shreds. "He...he wants me to leave, Dad. He wants me to come live with him in New Helic. But I can't." She gave another sigh. "He doesn't..._understand_. I don't think he even remembers Mama anymore. And...and last year, he told me that he couldn't fully remember your face, Dad." A lump suddenly formed in her throat, threatening to choke her with tears.

She shook her head roughly and brought her gaze up, to focus on the sandy horizon. "I have to stay. I have to. The memories here...they're mine, now, and mine alone." The thought made her heartsick, and her eyes finally welled with hot, treacherous tears. It was a good thing that the rest of the village was busy with harvesting of the lemon groves, leaving her some rare solace. She was unquestionably excused from such work, usually reserved for family groups. The women of the village didn't even bring up the subject of family around her, awkwardly side-stepping those painful conversations. She was an anomaly among them, plunged into the rigors of adulthood before she was even old enough to pilot a zoid legally, and they didn't know how to talk or act toward her.

Finally, she stood, dusting off her skirt and smoothing her tangled hair. She gave the headstone a somewhat affectionate pat, and then started down the steep hill. As she made slow progress, she took a few deep breaths and patted her face–looking normal was tantamount to the real thing, after all. She had to descend in a tediously careful, roundabout sideways fashion, lest her boots slip out from under her. It would still be embarrassing to fall on the slick grass, whether anyone was around to see it, or not.

When she was almost to the main road, Maria chanced a look up. Coincidentally, someone would have witnessed her tumble, after all–there was a tall figure trudging down the road toward her, and toward the main area of the Colony. Hopping onto the dusty gravel, she shaded her eyes and squinted at the visitor. He was swaying unhealthily, a ragged cloak tangling itself around his legs in the mild breeze that whispered throughout the village.

She frowned. _He doesn't look...well._ A moment later, the thought confirmed itself as the man stumbled and fell, and then lay motionless on the road. Maria gasped and ran to him, gathering her skirts in her hands and cursing their hindrance. She slid to a stop at his side, almost falling again. She knelt quickly and started to reach down, intending to grab his shoulder.

But that shoulder was covered in blood, the coarse material of his cloak soaked through. Maria stopped and swallowed hard, but then made a quick decision and grabbed his arm, instead, and heaved. With great effort, she rolled him over, and gasped. The blood was everywhere, it seemed...and he wasn't even what she would call a man. He looked to be about her age, but probably younger. His pale skin was smeared with red streaks, and maybe his hair was, too, but she couldn't tell–it was almost black.

He seemed to regain consciousness for a minute, and his eyes cracked open. Maria saw with a start that they were a most unusual pale lavender...but they weren't focused on her. He whispered something that she didn't catch, and then fell limp again.

Maria chewed her lip and thought hard for a minute. "He needs help," she said aloud. "But where do I go? Back home?" She shot a doubtful glance down the road. It was a long way, and he looked heavy. "I don't have anything in the way of medicine. But...I could get some." Something akin to a plan began to formulate in her mind. Resolutely, she stood, dusting off her skirts again.

She bent and tried to haul the man–no, he really was a _boy_–to his feet. As she predicted, he was heavy, but she finally managed. Her cheeks crimson with exertion, she panted, mostly to herself, "You know, this would be a lot easier if you would _help_."

The load seemed to lessen somewhat, and Maria darted a surprised look at the stranger's face, now almost uncomfortably close to her own. His eyes were slitted, and his jaw set. "Sorry," he ground out.

Maria blushed. She could think of quite a few things to say, but chose to keep her mouth shut, in case it turned into something inherently stupid. They lurched through the main street of the Wind Colony, and she was fervently grateful that no one was there to see. House after deserted house marched by, and dust motes sparkled in the suffocating heat.

With a sigh of relief, Maria caught sight of her old home. She unconsciously quickened her pace, and the stranger struggled to do the same. Finally, in a wash of shade, they were under the eaves. She kicked the door open and guided the boy through the kitchen to her bedroom and (she blushed again) her bed. He collapsed onto the sheets immediately, and Maria ran back to close the door.

As soon as the latch clicked, the enormity of what just happened finally sank in, and she suddenly felt as though she was in far over her head.

-

An hour later, the feeling was still there, like some sort of horrible, dark cloud. Standing before the sink, Maria stared out the window, her gaze unfocused. Her stranger (for she couldn't help but think of him as "hers") hadn't woken up since she had fairly dragged him home. She was still at a loss for ideas as to what to do with him, but pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Now, he needed medical attention, and a medic she was not.

Nonetheless, she finished pouring steaming water into the wooden bowl she held, and threw in a handful of fragrant herbs that sat on the windowsill. Grabbing a washcloth, she made her way back to the bedroom. She sat down on the side of the bed, for lack of a better seat, and dipped the cloth into the bowl. She considered the boy again.

She had managed to remove his shirt; it, along with the ragged cloak, was currently soaking in a washtub. He was obviously some sort of warrior, because scars were etched cruelly across his chest and arms. She suspected that his back was in much the same shape, but had no way of looking. His chest sported a deep gash that still bled sluggishly, and the wound in his shoulder looked suspiciously like a gunshot wound. There was no sign of a bullet. She had a chilling thought: _Perhaps he dug it out of his own skin._

Maria shuddered and wrung out her cloth, then hesitantly dabbed at the gash. When she received no reaction, she gained a bit of confidence, and cleaned it with more audacity. From there, she moved on to his shoulder, then to cleaning up the rest of the dried blood. The water in the bowl quickly turned the color of rust, and she went to change it twice.

She was able to bandage his chest and shoulder, and could move on. His face seemed to have quite a lot of blood on it, and she worried about infection. She wiped the cloth across his cheeks and nose, and found his skin to be alarmingly pale. Quite a lot of dirt came off as well. What she had thought to be blood at first sight, though, turned out to be a scarlet marking, one that she had never seen before: it was a strange slash-circle pattern that looked quite foreign to the region.

Mystified, she traced it lightly with her fingers, and then brushed aside a lock of hair that fell across his forehead. Such a strange color, too: so dark it seemed black, but was really an ashen shade of grey, under the gentler light of her home. Maria sighed. He was an enigma...and she was lonely. If only he could _talk_ to her.

She gathered the stained washcloth and stood to go dump the water that had, once again, been dyed a sickening cherry color. As it disappeared down the drain, she sighed heavily. Raising her gaze to the window above the sink, she stared at the vista of sand before her. A gentle wind wafted through the open window and ruffled her loosened hair; only a semblance of her usual stern braid remained.

"How am I going to explain this?" she wondered aloud. "Someone will come over eventually to see how I'm doing. They can't find a strange boy in my _bed_, of all places." A sickening scenario that ended with her desert exile played itself out in her mind, and she grimaced with a shake of her head.

"Don't be silly, Maria," she scolded. "You can just bandage him up and have him on his way by...by morning." Satisfied with her conclusion, she drew fresh water. "No one else has to get involved."

She shook her head and turned her attention back to the counter. She wouldn't try to feed him until he actually woke up, of course, so there was no point in preparing food. He was as clean as she could manage for the moment, and none of his wounds were bleeding freely anymore. There wasn't much else to do, except wait for consciousness to return to him. When it did, though... She reached for the small cabinet that housed the few medicines that she kept on hand. Being ready never hurt anything.

Balancing a basket full of ointment and aspirin, she carefully made her way back to the bedroom. The door had drifted mostly closed in the soft breeze, and sunlight danced its way through the small opening in a wash of gold. The sight lightened her spirits, and she hummed some elusive tune as she bumped the door open.

It all happened too fast for her to register anything but the empty bed. The door slammed shut behind her. Suddenly the basket was in the air, bottles skidding across the floor, and her wrists were pinned to the wall, intense lavender eyes boring into her own. Maria gave a choked squeak of surprise, and felt something deep inside freeze.

He couldn't have been the same person, it was impossible. This was a terrifying young man who had at least three inches of height on her, not the wounded youth that bled weakly from dozens of wounds. His grip was iron, his eyes silently burning through her skull. He didn't even seem to feel the pain from the injuries that spanned his body.

Maria suddenly felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her. _I can't faint here. I just can't. What would he do, then?_ She blinked hard and took a breath that she hadn't been aware she was holding. And then she stared back at him, and realized that he wasn't as menacing as he first seemed. His breathing was ragged, and a feverish flush still stained his cheeks. His grip was not, however, wavering.

She swallowed hard and said softly, "I brought you medicine."

His eyebrows lowered. "I don't need your medicine." His voice was rough, as if he didn't use it much.

She frowned back at him, growing bolder. "Yes, you do. You're still wounded, and you look like you're burning up with fever." Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered why she was arguing with him. He was, after all, an invalid.

He blinked hard, and frowned at her, almost in confusion. "It was you?" He released her wrists somewhat sheepishly, but his eyes stayed suspicious. "Why did you do it?"

Maria stared at him. "What, help you?" She frowned again, and reached up to place the back of her hand against his forehead. He flinched at the sudden movement, but stood motionlessly, nonetheless. After a considering ten seconds, she relaxed and pulled back. "Strange, you don't seem _that_ sick."

"I was serious."

She smiled at him. "You must come from a very strange part of Zi, if you don't think we owe each other common courtesy. Now," she pointed sternly behind him. "Go back to bed. I have medicine, and I'll make you dinner when you're hungry."

He gave her a bewildered look, but surrendered with a sullen, "Yes, ma'am."

As he shuffled back to the bed, she bent to collect the various bottles and tubes of medicine, and dumped them back into the basket. As she slipped through the doorway to pull together a meal for her newly awakened patient, she turned to glance behind her. Said patient sat hunched in the rumpled sheets of the bed, glaring rebelliously from behind spiky black bangs. Sunlight from the overhead window showered him in brilliance, and something about the scene made her smile.

She finally turned away, but the smile remained. _I'm__ glad I decided to stay._

-

"Gone by morning, I said." The shaft clattered across the woven thread. "By _morning._" Maria stopped, suddenly, the familiar motions ceasing noisily. She swallowed and leaned her head against the cool wood of the loom.

One day had turned into three, and her stranger still stayed in the Flyheight home–thank the gods of Zi that the harvesting would last the rest of the week. His fever lingered, and the slash in his chest reeked of infection. He slept fitfully, and refused anything but coffee, which he drank bitter and dark.

_"No, you can't leave," she said, for what was probably the fifth time, forcefully barring the doorway._

_He glared at her sourly, shaking his head. "Well, I can't _stay_." He paused. "And I despise owing favors," was the afterthought._

_"I don't care! You go out there like you are now, and the desert will kill you. It will kill anyone who doesn't know it."_

_He gave her an unreadable look. "How do you think I got here?"_

_How do you think I got here? _His strange reply still haunted her. The Elemian desert was kind to no one, least of all wounded travelers that happened through. He should have died, alone as he was. Maybe he was trying to die. She had never asked about his wounds or situation, and he had never felt moved enough to tell her.

It was the click of a latch that brought Maria from her reverie. Her head shot up, and she scrambled from the chair to burst into the bedroom: empty. She muttered a curse, and ran for the front door.

The early afternoon hit her first with its heat, then its sound–the insects of the oasis trilling and rattling out a symphony, the hot desert wind breezing noisily through the trees...and, above all, the trudging footsteps winding their way down the road.

"I wasn't lying when I said you couldn't leave," she yelled, her hands balled into fists.

He stopped and looked back at her with one of his cryptic expressions; she idly wondered where he had found his cloak. The road stretched between them, the only two occupants of the village, the only two occupants of Maria's world. She stared at him for another half-minute, and then he finally just shook his head, turned, and kept walking.

A furious glare lit up her features, and then she started to run. His stride was long, but she finally caught up to him, maintaining a fast walk at his side. "I didn't spend the last three days on you just so you can go out there and die," she snapped.

He didn't look at her. "It was enough. I've managed in worse condition."

"I don't _care._" She put on an extra burst of speed and planted herself in front of him, her arms thrown out and her cheeks burning with both exertion and indignation. "That doesn't mean that you'll manage this time. Just wait until tomorrow, at least. _Please._"

He stared at her, and she was suddenly aware of the verdant hills around them that heralded the last of the oasis's land; beyond was a stretch of worn trees that served as breaker for the waves of sand. She had let him come dangerously close to leaving, to venturing out into that deathly wasteland. The thought made her shudder and pull her shoulders up, her resolution to heal this man even more solid.

Finally, an eternity later, he gave a sigh. "Fine, fine. Tomorrow."

Maria smiled at him. "Thank you." He didn't reply, just turned and started back. She ran to his side and tugged at his sleeve. "Next time, though, don't try anything in broad daylight. The heat stroke will kill you before you even out of the oasis, let alone in the desert." He stopped, and she smiled again. "Come on, we can wait in the shade until the worst of the heat is over."

Five minutes later, sitting under the shade of the nearest tree, she could feel his eyes on her. Without tearing her eyes from the sparkling sand in the distance, she said, "You know, you've been giving me the strangest looks ever since you first woke up." Her eyes slid over to meet his. "Care to explain it?"

Unabashed at being caught, he shrugged. "I still don't understand why you're helping me. You don't even know my name."

She rolled her eyes. "I already told you. It's common courtesy."

"But I'm a..." His voice turned rough. "I'm a soldier, a killer."

She gave a small smile. "I know. I guessed."

"You don't think less of me?"

She leaned back on her hands, and smiled at the sky. "War has torn my family apart. I guess I should hate the soldiers that did it, and what they all stand for...but I can't. They're just fighting for what they believe in, at any cost. I can't hate them for that. I only wish I had that kind of courage." She glanced at him again. "My father died in the first war, and my little brother is following in his footsteps–I'm terrified for him, but I'm proud, too. I guess that if you're anything like the two of them, then I'll make sure you live, no matter what."

He blinked his bright eyes at her, and she thought that she saw something lift behind them. But then he looked away, east, to the desert. "And if I'm not?"

She shook her head and smiled again, a little sadly. "Then don't tell me."

-

Dusk was scarlet that night, bathing the village in crimson. Maria watched at her little kitchen's window as families staggered back to their homes, exhausted. A few of them waved at her, and she raised a hand in salute, smiling so they wouldn't worry about poor, lonely Maria.

Just one more day. Then he would be gone. "How will I know that he was real?" she murmured, her eyes on the stars peeking from the desert. "That he wasn't just a dream?" _You won't,_ hissed a little voice. _You'll__ just have your memory, and that's all–nothing else, no more proof._

She swallowed and closed her eyes. It was the creak and rustle of fabric that centered her attention on the doorway behind her. She didn't turn around. "Where are you going to go?"

"East, probably. I don't know."

She tightened her hand that rested on the counter into a fist, and forced out, "You don't have to leave."

"Yes, I do."

She finally turned to see his back retreating into the bedroom. She followed, and braced herself against the doorway, her hands clasped on her arms. "Do you _want_ to leave?" He froze. After a long moment, he shook it off and returned to silently gathering his few things. Maria ground her teeth, and angrily dashed tears from her eyes. _"Answer me."_

He straightened and turned to look at her, silhouetted against the ruby sky. Somehow, he was a stranger again, furious with the world. His eyes were walled up like they were before, shadowed by his secrets. He only said, "I don't have a choice," as if that should settle it.

Maria's shoulders sagged, and she desperately turned her gaze to the window behind him, scrambling for something else to think about. But the thought kept resurfacing: _I'm alone again._ _Alone._ She swallowed hard and pressed her lips together.

Crimson-orange splashed silently across the furniture, her tightly crossed arms, and his booted feet; the shadows stretched further and further toward her, as the sun sank into the west. The light highlighted the strangest things on the floor, shadows playing across them with great fervor. Her eyes focused on the distorted square of light that was the window's projection; tiny spots flitted crazily across–night birds going out to hunt.

Suddenly, a new shadow surfaced on the window's pocket of light. Maria stared at it in surprise, trying to make sense of the angles and sharp edges. It looked strangely familiar... She looked up sharply, and gasped. It was a monstrous black shape that blotted out much of the window's light, and narrow ice-blue eyes flashed in middle of the darkness. The apparition swiveled to its right, and, once in profile, Maria dimly recognized it as the head of an organoid.

Slowly, as if in a dream, she shifted her gaze to her stranger. He, too, faced his right, though only a wall stood there. He didn't see it, his lavender eyes unfocused. The silhouette outside growled a soft note, and he nodded. He turned to Maria and said quietly, "You should leave. He's coming here for me."

Her mind was slow, struggling to follow the dream and its logic. "Who? For...you?"

Suddenly, the front door burst open, and a familiar voice yelled, "Maria!"

She started, and exclaimed softly, "Van." Her stranger blinked and stared at her in a mix of disbelief and shock, his eyes going wide.

"Maria?" She felt a hand on her arm, but didn't turn. "Hey, Maria, are you–"

For a long moment, the three occupants of the room were frozen, and then Van snarled, "Raven!" and leapt forward.

Maria gave a cry and threw herself after him, flinging her arms around his waist and dragging him back. "Van, don't!" There was a crash and a roar, and then a blinding flash of light that threw the room into harsh relief. Then the only light was that of the dimming sunset.

Maria hugged herself to her little brother, making it impossible for him to get up. "Leave him alone," she sobbed. "Just let him go." The shadows fought silently on the wall with the crimson light, struggling for dominance.

"No, I have to–"

"_I don't care!_ Leave him, Van!'

After a moment of plucking at her tightly latched fingers, Van sagged helplessly against her, giving an exasperated sigh. "Maria, don't you even know who he was?"

"Don't tell me. Please, don't tell me." Her tears traced burning trails of fire down her cheeks, and the last vestige of the sun's light winked out of existance.

-

_Lying awake, watching the sunlight  
__How the birds will sing  
__As I count the rings around my eyes  
__Constantly pushing the world I know aside  
__I don't even feel the pain  
__I don't even want to try..._

_-_

_Heh. Don't hurt me, please. Review, please, and flames are accepted, but will be used to warm my cold feet. _


End file.
